Cleansing
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: "... I'm detoxing." John didn't know if he was being thick or if Sherlock was trying to admit something to him. "From what?" he asked. "The morphine, John, obviously!" Sherlock swept to his feet, burgundy dressing gown spinning out around him. [Set in HLV, between Sherlock leaving hospital and Christmas. Rated M for material and occasional swearing. Trigger warnings as such.]
1. Chapter 1

**Cleansing**

Between work and Baker Street, John thought that he had a pretty good reason for staying the hell away from his own flat. After he had met Mary, he had thought that nothing would keep him away from his wife and under Sherlock Holmes's wing again, but... well, Sherlock was Sherlock. The barmy idiot was like a drug, and even if John tried to say otherwise, he had really, _really_ missed him, and he was really, _really_ glad that he was back. Even if the faked death had been a very, _very _stupid decision.

He let himself into Baker Street with the key that he owned again. He had long since handed it over to Mrs Hudson after Sherlock's apparent death, when he had wanted nothing to do with Baker Street because of the reminders, but Sherlock had given it back. John had tossed it into the dish at home, planning on going about his life without contacting Sherlock every waking minute of the day like he desperately _needed_ to know that he was there, he was really alive, but now John was glad that Sherlock had given it to him.

It was like he had known... but no. John stopped himself there. Before the wedding, and even after, briefly, Sherlock had taken to Mary like pencil to paper. Dare John say that Sherlock even _liked_ her. He had had no inclination that there was anything wrong. No inclination that she was a lying, thieving, backstabbing-

_That's not true,_ a voice interrupted in his head, something that sounded disturbingly like Sherlock's. _She's only a liar. The rest was for her job, and before she met you._

John shook it away and took the steps two at a time. "Sherlock, you home?"

He didn't receive a response, which more or less didn't mean a thing. In fact, he found Sherlock sitting in his chair, staring so hard into space that he probably hadn't even heard John call.

"Hey." John snapped his fingers in front of him.

Sherlock jumped, leaning back in the chair slightly. "Sorry, what?"

"I asked if you were home," John replied, shucking his coat off.

"Clearly." Sherlock have him a look that was half distasteful, probably because of his apparent stupidity.

"What did you get up to today?" John strode into the kitchen to pour himself a cup of tea, only to sigh in annoyance when he found there was none brewed. "Are you literally incapable of making a pot of tea?"

"I didn't want tea," Sherlock replied, in his usual, flippant tone.

"You know I was coming over today, you could have made tea." John moved to the sink to fill the kettle up, piling dirty dishes out of the way.

"I'm not making tea just because you _might_ come over," Sherlock retorted. It was almost snappy, a little bitter.

John looked up. "What's got your knickers in a twist?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and inhaled heavily. It was one of those motions that John had only seen him do when he was either under extreme pressure or trying extremely hard to keep his reactions in check. Sherlock let his breath out slowly, long fingers curling around the armrests of his chair.

John huffed and turned the tap off, plunking the kettle back into its spot. He hit the button and turned away, looking for the canister of Sherlock's best tea.

He secretly hoped that Sherlock wasn't put out at him, or that he was basically using his flat as a reason to stay away from his wife. He would rather put up with an out-of-sorts Sherlock than Mary right now, and that was saying something. He hoped the tea would better soothe Sherlock's nerves than trying to talk about it. He knew he wasn't being such a gracious guest, but it had been a long, long week. He would really owe Sherlock after this one.

"Here," he said, handing over a cup of tea so many minutes of silence later. He held it out like a peace offering, and smiled a little ruefully.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open again, like he was startled by John's close proximity. John noticed that his foot was bouncing every so slightly. That wasn't necessarily a normal Sherlock motion.

"You okay?"

"Fine." Sherlock reached up to take the tea. "Thank you."

John slowly trailed over to his own chair, sitting down. He was focussed on Sherlock now, because it gave him something other to do than to think about Mary or his job or how much crap he'd stepped into between Mary and Magnussen and Sherlock's return to the living. And who the hell even knew about the bonfire. John still woke up some nights, choking on ash and the smell of burning firewood heavy in his nostrils.

Sherlock's fingers tightened around the mug, to the point where his knuckles pressed white against his skin. They relaxed after a moment, Sherlock staring off towards the fireplace blankly, but the movement ceased only for a few minutes of silence before it repeated. Sherlock crossed his legs at the ankles and his toe bounced relentlessly in the new position. When Sherlock finally had to swap hands for his mug to flex his fingers, John spoke up.

"Are you sure you're okay? You're not usually so antsy." He paused. "Or, if you are, you usually aren't trying to hide it."

Sherlock looked up, that same, strange mixture of surprise and guilt flying across his face. It was unsettling, because it was the third time that look had passed Sherlock's face when John had drawn him out of his reveries.

John leaned forward. "Tell me what's wrong."

Sherlock sighed heavily, seeming to deflate all at once. His shoulders slumped, his chin dropped, his back arching over slightly as though he was curling into himself. He set his mug of tea aside, and pressed his fingers together. "... I'm detoxing."

John blinked. And then blinked again, because surely he had to have heard him wrong. "I'm sorry?"

"I'm approximately nine hours into detoxification."

John didn't know if he was being thick or if Sherlock was trying to admit something to him. Either way, it didn't boost any confidence in the situation. "From what?" he asked.

"The morphine, John, obviously!" Sherlock swept to his feet, burgundy dressing gown spinning out around him.

"The morphine," John repeated stupidly, and then it hit him. "Oh." The morphine from the case (now assuming that was what he had taken), the morphine from the hospital, from the gunshot wound _(from Mary)_. "But... you've been on morphine since you left hospital?"

Sherlock made a face that John was certain that he wasn't supposed to see, a mangled combination between vulnerable and disgusted. "I've been in _pain_."

John cringed. "Sorry, sorry." He could remember the agony from Afghanistan, even after the bullet had been removed and he had been patched back up. It wasn't a one-and-done, a gunshot wound.

He wasn't sure why he was so surprised that Sherlock was still on the morphine. He briefly wondered why he hadn't gone over to a different strong painkiller instead, but then realised that his friend's habits were probably the root of all this evil to begin with. He had just opted to stay on the morphine because he was, what? More familiar with it? John had just thought... if anybody... Sherlock could have just, he didn't know, _gone off it_.

But that was a stupid assumption. Because while Sherlock _was_ Sherlock, he was still human. He still felt pain, and desire, and he had his vices, morphine being one of them. Maybe it _had_ only been for a case. At first.

... How could have he been so _stupid_ to leave Sherlock on his own after the hospital stay? He should have- No. It was too late for that now. John shook his head and looked up at Sherlock.

"Were you going to tell me?" he questioned. "At all?"

Sherlock's back was to him. "I was hoping to avoid the conversation."

"But, why?"

"Because you have your own problems, John."

It was blunt, matter-of-fact, and completely true. John felt like he was taking the shot in Afghanistan all over again, but the sting that burned beneath his skin had nothing to do with physical injury.

"Sherlock-" He sighed. "That doesn't matter. I don't care if I've got the Queen of England on bloody hold, you know I'd do anything-"

"I know," Sherlock interjected.

"So, why didn't you-"

Sherlock interrupted again. "This is _my_ problem."

John stared at his back. "You can't go through a detox by yourself, Sherlock, surely you know that."

"I can try," Sherlock said crisply.

"Well, that's stupid." John stood up. "You know I'm not going to let you stay here while-"

"I don't want your help, John!" Sherlock snapped, whirling around. He looked livid, alight with determination that nearly shook his lithe frame beneath the gown he was wearing.

John fell back slightly. "You..."

Realisation flickered across Sherlock's face, draining the anger to again a defeated sense of self. "... I can manage on my own," he muttered.

"Why should you have to?" John fired back. He had seen detoxes. He had seen what they did to people, what they made people _do_. Drugs were strong motivators.

"I want to."

"_Why_?" John demanded.

"I..." Whatever he had planned to say seemed to slip off his tongue. Sherlock turned away slightly, looking towards the fireplace. "... don't like losing control. Around the people that I... respect," he said shortly, then drew in a deep breath. "Around people that respect me," he added, seeming to take this statement in better stride.

John didn't mind Sherlock fanning his ego this time. "You do realise that, out of all the people around you, I am _literally_ the _last_ person that will judge you?"

"Of course I do," Sherlock muttered. He shifted from foot to foot, and then reached for his tea on a seeming spur of the moment action. "But..."

"But what?" John countered.

"... It's not pleasant," Sherlock said pathetically.

"I know."

"And I get violent." He gestured at the walls. "You've seen the state of the our walls, and that's when I _wasn't_ high or detoxing-"

"Sherlock."

Sherlock stopped talking, although he didn't look back.

"I'm not going to leave you like this. Not by yourself."

Sherlock didn't move for a long while and, when he did, it was with that same sense of slow, detached self-betrayal, like he was legitimately giving up on himself. In a way, John reckoned, Sherlock probably thought he was. Giving up his control, his rationality, his strength in the face of anything that so much as thought about him wrong. "I know," Sherlock said quietly.

John nodded to himself. "Alright." He straightened up. "I'm gonna run to Tesco to pick up some things, food," he added, "since I'm staying. And I'll text Mary to tell her I'm staying here for a few days, pick up some stuff from home. Is there anything you need?"

"Antihistamines," Sherlock replied immediately. "It might not be withdrawal from cocaine, but it can still..." He gestured vaguely. "More paracetamol. And _maybe _an anti-emetic."

John nodded. "Alright." To be honest, it had been a long while since he had been around anyone who was going through a detox. He was going to have to spend some time researching it before Sherlock hit his peak, or they would both be in knee-deep.

"And for you to develop a sense of self-preservation and not come back."

John shook his head slightly, reaching for his coat. "When have I _ever_ had a sense of self-preservation? I went to war and then became best friends with you."

Sherlock stared at him intently, as though expecting to find something, John didn't know what, pain or horror or pity or _something_, looking back at him. John didn't feel anything except determination, so he had no problem meeting Sherlock's steely gaze head-on.

"... Right," Sherlock said quietly. He almost cracked a smile, but it vanished under the onslaught of movement that was him striding to the other side of the room. "I'll be here," he said, planting himself at the window and staring out it unmovingly.

"Back soon," John promised.

He wasn't sure, he thought, as he stepped outside and strode up to the kerb for a cab, when he had become the sort of person that was so self-absorbed in his own problems that he was failing to see the problems of the ones he cared for around him, but he was making a promise to himself that he wasn't going to do that anymore. That voice in his head that sounded oddly like Sherlock spoke up just then. _That includes Mary, too_. John shook the thought away. He was taking this one step at a time. Sherlock was detoxing now; Mary, well, Mary could wait.

_That's not fair, John_, complained the Sherlock-voice in his head.

"Oh, shut up," John muttered under his breath.

Someone passing by on the street gave him a look that was a cross between affronted and alarmed.

John sighed heavily and waved down the incoming cab. It was bound to be another long week.

* * *

><p><strong>The newest story I'm working on. Well, been working on for a couple of weeks (I'm trying to complete stories before I post chapters, so the updates will be fairly regular ^^). It'll be dark, it'll be heavy, and it is not a pretty picture. But the idea's been with me since HLV and I've finally gotten around to writing it. Please take note that I, thankfully, do not have <em>any<em> experience with detox and all the information that will come in this story is gleaned from what info I could find, so if there are inconsistences, please forgive them. In any case, stay tuned~ Lots of Sherlock whump to come.**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Thanks for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Note: Few lines of talk on religion in this chapter; it is not at all meant to be offending, just following a line of how Sherlock seemed to give himself off on the topic. (Ex: The Sign of Three) Stating in advance for courtesy!**

* * *

><p>John managed to get a tiny bit of dinner into Sherlock when he returned from Tesco. He counted it as a success, figuring Sherlock would probably be feeling too miserable to eat hardly at all in the next few days.<p>

"This might be tough to answer," John said, studiously keeping his gaze on his pasta, "but is there anything that I should definitely know? Anything that's happened before."

Sherlock was staring at his own plate, too; he had been since John had set it front of him. In fact, Sherlock wasn't making much eye contact with him at all, which was all too telling that Sherlock was feeling emotion about the experience. John didn't blame him in the slightest. He was doing his best to diminish the tension by not talking about it, but there were some things that he had to ask before Sherlock was too far gone.

"Like I said before, I get violent," Sherlock said shortly, pushing his peas through the sauce. He was just playing with his food now. Any of it that remained wasn't going into his mouth, which meant the half plate of pasta and five-cheese bread would be dumped into plastic and stashed in the fridge to most likely spoil. "Don't lessen the intensity of it in your mind," he continued. "Your worst ideas are probably what will come to light. You've seen me angry before."

John had. Those moments were single-handedly some of the most blood chilling moments of his life. When Sherlock and him had had Moriarty pressed back against the stairwell of Kitty Riley's flat, when he had winced over Sherlock raising his voice as the American had threatened to shoot John if he didn't open the safe. When Sherlock had thrown the same American in their sitting room from the bathroom window over and _over_ again until John had had to literally _wrestle_ Sherlock away to stop him doing it again, when John had pushed too hard at a frightened Sherlock staring into the fire at Cross Keys pub.

"Multiply that with the influence of drugs and you will be at the correct level of malice," Sherlock continued sullenly.

John just nodded slightly, taking a bite of his dinner. He still didn't look up from his plate. "Okay."

"... I have extensive martial arts training," Sherlock said slowly. "I may try to hurt you if something sets me off. Restraining me is _not_ a good idea," he added quickly.

Now John's curiosity was piqued, but he wasn't about to broach that topic. Not now, or ever, actually, unless Sherlock brought it up first. "Okay," he repeated simply.

"Obviously, if you have to... _intervene_ for my safety, that's all well and good, but don't _leave_ me restrained."

He couldn't help looking up this time. "God, Sherlock, do you think I'm going to tie you up or something? Detoxing's going to be bad enough, I'm not going to make it worse."

Sherlock looked up. He actually looked a little guilty before shifting his eyes back to his plate. "I've cuffed myself before, when I did this when I was nineteen." He rubbed at his neck, chasing away the beads of sweat there. "I needed to be clean and there was no one else to stop me from quitting and going back to it."

A feeling like John had just swallowed a mouthful of soured milk settled deep into the pit of his stomach. "Where was _Mycroft_?" he demanded. "Nineteen- you would have only just gotten into uni, yeah? Maybe?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I was admitted early."

John bit back the reflexive _of course you were_, but only because Sherlock was still speaking.

"Mycroft didn't... he didn't know about the drugs. Not that time."

John let out a breath. "Right. And you've done this-"

"This'll be my third detox." Sherlock prodded at a piece of broccoli on his plate before dropping his fork. "The first time, I was nineteen. The second, I was twenty-five." He opened the fridge and fished out a bottle of water. "Asides from this case... I was doing good," he said idly, before taking a drink.

And John wondered again if Sherlock hadn't suddenly _relapsed_ not just for the case but because John hadn't been there to make sure that he _didn't_. If John _had_ been there, and not been off enjoying the honeymoon and the phase afterwards with his wife, he wondered if Sherlock would have gotten caught up in all of this.

Well. Of course not. If John hadn't chosen Mary, Mary wouldn't have been there to shoot Sherlock. Most likely, anyway. Which meant, while he would have been taking drugs on his own, recreationally, perhaps, then the hospital wouldn't have pumped him full of it, anyway.

"You still will," he said, out loud. "Do good," he clarified. "Do better, actually. You said nineteen and twenty five, that's six years. Twenty-five to now, that's almost eleven years without a relapse." _You assume he didn't relapse, anyway. Who knows what the hell happened in those two years he was away?_

Sherlock cracked the tiniest of smiles. "Yes... I'm stretching my record for being clean each time. Perhaps this time, I'll manage for twenty."

"Or stay clean the rest of your life," John said softly.

"If there's cases," Sherlock said, and gulped back another mouthful of water before setting it aside. "I'm going to shower and go to bed. It wreaks havoc on any chance of sleep and I'm going to try to get ahead of it." He paused in the hallway, fingertips pressing lightly against the wallpaper. "... Thanks."

The word sounded as though it physically pained him to say.

To be honest, it wasn't the most settling thing for John to hear, either, but it was in times of crisis that Sherlock found his manners.

"Any time, Sherlock. Seriously," he added.

Sherlock didn't say anything. He was still for a moment before continuing down the hallway. John heard the bathroom door shut behind him and he sighed softly, pushing his plate away. He'd lost his appetite, too.

* * *

><p>Sherlock had gone to bed around ten. John knew that he ought to have had, too, but he just couldn't find it in him to settle. It was strange to spend the night at Baker Street willingly. Yes, he'd fallen asleep a few times since he had started taking refuge from his wife here, but he did have some clothes here, too, now, so he'd just shower, change, and go straight to work. But now, actually having told Mary that he was going to be staying with Sherlock for awhile - leaving out the why - puttering around the flat while Sherlock slept... it just made John uneasy.<p>

That was pathetic. He was uneasy in his own flat and he was uneasy in his old flat. He didn't want to be around his wife and he was nervous to be around his best friend. What a mess.

But he didn't get to wallow in his own problems right now. Not right now.

In the end, he ended up trying to sleep on the sofa, catching a few minutes here and there. It was a wise choice, not to go upstairs (never-mind that the bed upstairs was devoid of sheets and now apparently being used as a work desk given the case files), because around two in the morning, John was aware of rummaging in the kitchen.

"Sherlock?"

There was a click, a clank, and the crashing of glass onto the linoleum floor.

"Son of a bitch!"

John jumped, at both the crash and the tone, kicking the blankets away hastily to get to his feet.

Sherlock was standing in the kitchen, barefoot in the middle of a shattered glass, with his hand over his mouth like he couldn't believe he'd just cursed out loud. It would have been comical any other time, if Sherlock's curls weren't matted to his head with sweat or if his pupils weren't blown wide in the light cast off by the lamp over the stove.

"Hey, hey, hey, don't move," John said hurriedly, making a grab for his shoes.

Sherlock didn't really seem to hear him, but at least he didn't move. The change in four hours was a drastic one; not only was his face and neck gleaming with a sheen of sweat and his pupils dilated, there were goose bumps marring his skin and he just seemed... well, out of it. He swallowed, and his hand fell away from his mouth slowly. Even slower, he looked down at the broken glass surrounding him, staring at it uncomprehendingly.

"Here, sit down." John brushed his hand against Sherlock's shoulder. The detective's muscle rippled beneath his clothes as he flinched from the touch. "Sorry! Sorry." John pulled the chair out and gestured for him to sit. "Are you okay?" he asked clearly.

Sherlock sank into the chair, seeming to come back into himself slowly. It was like watching someone wake up from sleep-walking, or watching a switch be flicked. "... I'm hot," he said pathetically, slowly drawing his feet up to the supports on the chair. "I wanted a drink." His voice rumbled deep with exhaustion, and something akin to pain.

"Okay." John stretched for a plastic tumbler and filled it with cold water, setting it down in front of him. "Go slowly." He wasn't exactly sure where Sherlock was, detox wise, how many hours, but it was clearly progressing, and the longer they could prolong the vomiting, the better.

"Thank you," Sherlock mumbled, although he seemed to disregard the advice, gulping the water in a few, short seconds.

"How're you doing?" John asked hesitantly, clearing away the broken glass. It wasn't his first time witnessing a detox, but it certain was his first time being so up close and personal to the person in question. Sherlock's warnings were still clear in his mind.

"I feel like I rolled out of Hell," Sherlock intoned, shifting on the wooden chair. "Detox makes you think those places are actually real."

John opted not to say that _religion_ made you believe that those places were real, Heaven and Hell. He had tried to have a conversation about religion with Sherlock once when they were both sober, and it had ended with John storming out of the flat. He might not be the most devout, but he believed. He had so many reasons to, and he had just as many reasons not to bring it up with Sherlock now.

"Are you warm?"

"Isn't _Hell _supposedly made of _fire_?"

"Fine, it was a stupid question." John stood up, dumping the shattered glass into the hazardous waste bucket that Sherlock kept near the bin. "But you're covered in goose bumps."

"Yes... Can't seem to shake them. It comes and goes, like having a fever." He nudged the tumbler. "Can I get more or are you cutting me off after one?"

"Hang on." John would have to get the broom for the rest of the glass. "You can have as much as you want, but try not to overhydrate." He refilled it and handed it to Sherlock. "You need to replenish your fluids, but not all at once."

"I know that," Sherlock replied stuffily. He took the water more slowly this time, which John was glad for. "I know I'm just going to throw it all up later, but my body feels like it's on fire."

"You're sweating a pretty good clip," John commented, going to fetch the broom. "Did you want to take a shower now?"

"Ugh." Sherlock shifted again. "Not really, but I suppose I might before I'm too miserable to do anything else."

"Well, stay a minute," John muttered, gripping loosely at Sherlock's exposed ankle. He needed new pyjamas. These were still the ones that Sherlock had had when John had lived with him, and they were even more worn than before. Not to mention short. Always a little short, but John had never been able to talk him into new ones. "Let me finish sweeping here and get your shoes."

"If you sweep, why do I need my shoes," Sherlock intoned, although he didn't move.

John knew it was a lost argument, just like the pyjamas, so he didn't press it. Instead, he finished cleaning up the glass and found Sherlock his shoes, just in case, having to tap him on the shoulder to draw him out of wherever he was in. John wasn't sure if that was just classic Sherlock disappearing into his mind palace or if it was part of the detox. Nothing was ideally relative when Sherlock was the one going through the detox.

"Call if you need me."

Sherlock mumbled something incoherent - _that_ was typical, non-commental Sherlock - as he trudged off towards the bathroom.

"And go back to bed, alright?"

Sherlock opted not to respond at all this time. The flat was swallowed in silence until the shower started up in the bathroom.

* * *

><p><strong>And so it begins, and so shall it continue...<strong>

**As always, stay tuned and thank you immensely for your support! :D**


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock did not go back to bed, despite John's insistence, so he gave up the sofa for Sherlock to sprawl out on in hopes that his friend would at least manage to snatch a few minutes of sleep here and there.

John didn't sleep, just sat in his chair and stared idly towards the muted TV. The minutes ticked by into hours. The clock clicked to five past five. John was looking forward to daybreak. He was hoping that it would help him wake up a bit. He went to make himself a coffee and trailed tiredly back into the sitting room, pausing when he glanced at Sherlock.

He hadn't uttered a word since crawling onto the couch, hair still damp from the shower, three hours ago, but John was never positive that he'd been sleeping and now there were lines of pain etched onto his face.

"... What's happening?" John asked softly.

"Stomach," Sherlock replied briskly, pressing his lips into a thin line.

As John watched, Sherlock's leg twitched, prompting Sherlock's jaw to tighten before he pressed his bare feet into the armrest firmly. He'd been sweating ever since immediately following the shower, John reckoned, but now he was shivering, too, and it was only just that John bit his tongue against the horrendously pathetic drivel that he desperately wanted to spew forth. Sherlock wouldn't appreciate the sentiment, but John hated seeing him like this.

Sherlock's fingers seized at the front of his own shirt, knuckles gone white for a half second before relaxing again. John closed his eyes briefly, then shook himself and straightened up.

"You want the heating pad?" There had to be something proactive to do, and from the squirming Sherlock was doing in trying to get comfortable on the sofa, his entire body was probably aching as well as the cramps probably ravaging his stomach.

"I don't care." Sherlock tossed his head on the armrest. "Nothing helps."

_Like that's going to stop me_, John thought. "I'll be back in a minute, try to relax."

Sherlock's jaw tightened again, and John wondered if he was biting back a retort. He didn't care. It would get worse, he imagined. Still, he searched out a heating pad and some more paracetamol, taking them both to Sherlock. The detective swallowed the pills with the smallest sip of water and pressed the heating pad against his stomach, even as it was still wasn't heated and John was plugging it in.

"How many hours?" John asked quietly.

"... Twenty... twenty one... don't remember." His fingers twitched.

John nodded. "Okay." He nearly reached over to brush Sherlock's curls out of his face, stopping himself at the last second. Touchy feely was not going to get either of them anywhere. "Okay," he repeated, clenching his hand into a fist before turning away. "Let me know if you need anything."

"Morphine." Sherlock laughed, a strangled sound that sank into John's ears that he was positive he wouldn't forget any time soon. "Oxycodone. A sedative."

John paused. "... You know I can't do that."

"You asked," Sherlock bit off, and rolled over to face the back of the sofa.

"Fair enough," John muttered, heading back to the chair.

* * *

><p>Dawn broke as bright and early as it usually did, with Sherlock inhaling and exhaling breathily on the sofa. He seemed to have dropped off at some point in the past couple of hours, although John could never tell if he stayed asleep for any decent amount of time.<p>

Instead of the morning news, John was watching him sleep.

He nibbled at a piece of toast with jam on it, feeling vaguely sick to his stomach himself. Every few seconds, Sherlock's extremities would twist and jerk as though connected to an invisible string, pulled at whim by the tiny, most powerful thing John had ever witnessed. Sweat had soaked through his thin t-shirt, staining it dark in the curves where it clung to his body. As John sat by helplessly, Sherlock tossed and turned on the sofa, curling tightly into his body and staying there as he shook in unconsciousness.

The detective awoke with a gasp some time soon thereafter, his arms immediately going to his stomach. "Oh, fuck."

"You're a whole day in," John said shortly, not giving him a _good morning_ or a _how are you_. He knew that those would irritate Sherlock even further.

"Don't tell me that!" Sherlock snapped, swinging to his legs off the sofa while simultaneously still managing to keep his body tucked in the smallest space possible. "Not when it doesn't peak for _two to four _days!"

"Sorry," John said emotionlessly. He knew that. He knew that detox didn't happen overnight. If it did, anyone who went through everything combined into one day would be dead. Even this way, detox still killed people; John prayed that Sherlock didn't start seizing, for one, or that he didn't go for knives or blades or anything that could hurt him in the heat of the moment. He'd already taken all the pills - _all the pills_, even the paracetamol - from the bathroom cabinet, because if Sherlock wanted a high or an out, he would probably take anything to get him free. If he'd chance a poison pill just because he was _bored_...

Sherlock thumped his head back against the back of the sofa. "Coffee. Decaf. Tea. Anything."

"Right." John went to brew a pot, leaving Sherlock to struggle with his sweat soaked shirt on his own. After the coffee, a brew that John double-checked was decaf, was ready, he went back to the kitchen to find a suitable bowl to fill with cool water and a flannel. "Here," he said, setting both down carefully on the coffee table.

Sherlock regarded the water pensively, his fingers clutched around his mug of coffee and his other arm still wrapped around his stomach.

"Cool water," John supplied. "For-"

"I know," Sherlock interrupted, although it lacked a little bit of the snap that it had had in moments prior. "Thank you."

John smiled sadly. "Yeah."

Sherlock stared into his coffee for a moment, seemingly to contemplate the dregs of it. He narrowed his eyes slightly as John retreated back to his chair, but then he drank the last of it in a few, small sips and set the mug aside.

"Sorry," Sherlock said shortly. His tongue sounded like it was stuck to the roof of his mouth. He leaned forward, dipping his fingers into the water to fish out the cloth. "I'm being entirely serious when I say it's how I would imagine Hell." He wrung the cloth out and pressed his face into it, sighing heavily. "It's like... having a bad trip while being run over by a bus then being thrown into a vat of oil and then being set on fire." He rubbed his face and then pushed the cloth back through his sweaty hair, pushing it from his face. "... And then it repeats. Over and over." Sherlock twirled his hand in a clockwise motion, then stopped and made a face. "I don't usually create metaphors about life."

John shook his head. "Look, you don't have to explain."

"I think it's necessary," Sherlock said. His tone was point-blank; it didn't lose effect by the red-rimmed eyes or the runny nose or the flush on his cheeks. "It is necessary."

"It's not you talking, it's the drugs." John shrugged slightly. "I know that. Come on. I've known you for years. I _know_ you."

Sherlock's head fell a few degrees to the left. "Do you?"

"Yes," John said determinedly. "I do."

Sherlock stared at him with a frighteningly intense gaze. Beneath the hazy look and the curls matted to the side of his head and the shaking hands and curse words, he was doing that look that made John squirm on the best of days. It was like he was looking directly into his soul. It was the most clarity that John had seen in Sherlock's eyes since he'd gotten here last night.

Then, Sherlock scoffed and turned away, thumping his head back against the sofa again. He draped the cool cloth over his face and left it there.

John wasn't sure if he had passed the inspection or not.

"You should go back to bed while you can. Or at least eat a little something," he said instead, standing again.

"The cramping's already on, I'm just going to vomit it back up," Sherlock said. "Not to mention it's getting worse."

"Still. Piece of toast? Something, Sherlock?" John wheedled.

Sherlock sighed thinly. "Toast, no jam."

"Good-" John stopped himself from finishing that thought. There was no reason - asides from the obvious, but he didn't want to give into that - to coddle Sherlock. "Yeah. Just a second."

When he returned a moment later, he nearly dropped the toast when he took one glance at Sherlock's exposed back. He'd fought his shirt off minutes earlier, but now he had curled up with his head on the armrest again. His face was tucked into a cushion, but his back was bared to John.

And he had scars. _Large _scars, along the length of his back, where the nodules of his spine pressed against his skin, like he had been beaten. Or tortured.

John sucked in a deep breath. "Sherlock... what _happened_?"

"Mmm?"

"Your back..."

"Oh." Sherlock sat up slowly, rolling over onto his back (so they didn't hurt, then, that was good. John could tell they weren't recent, but those hadn't been there before Sherlock had gone away.), and then his opposite side. "Yes. It's fine."

John blinked rapidly and then handed over the meagre breakfast. "... Why didn't you tell me?"

"I was away, you thought I was dead." Sherlock's voice was dismissive, but also subtly guarded. If John didn't know him, he wouldn't have noticed it.

"Why didn't you tell me?" John repeated. _Why didn't you tell me when you came back, when we got back on speaking terms, any of this time that I've been spending with you?_

Sherlock took a small bite of the toast, meeting John's gaze. "Just like you, even I have scars I don't talk about." He looked away towards the window, where the sunlight was filtering through at a slant that caught the dust, chewing his breakfast methodically.

John had to remind himself to breathe again. It was a perfectly sound response. John had never offered up explanation for his own scars, and the only way Sherlock had ever gotten a story out of him was when he'd had to bandage a knife wound on John's back after one memorable case. Even then, John hadn't been very forthcoming about the details, except an IED, Bill Murray, and _"I got shot"_. Sherlock hadn't pursued it; John was tactful enough to know that the same standard was in play here, and he had no right to ask.

Didn't mean he didn't want to know. And it didn't help the twinge of sadness in thinking that, after so long, there were still things between them that they couldn't bridge the gap over. Maybe one day. Things had changed so much, and, knowing their lives, they probably would again in the sometime probably-not-so-distant future, but still...

One step at a time, then.

"Right," John said quietly. He straightened his shoulders. "I'm going to change out your linens, and then you can go back to bed. Try to catch some more sleep."

Sherlock nodded without a word.

One step at a time.

* * *

><p><strong>There's quite a few more elements here than just the detox itself, so do bare with me while Sherlock's symptoms kick in and fluctuate. You can only write the "peak" of detox with so much detail without getting repetitive, so I've paced the story where I thought middling level was.<strong>

**As always, thank you for your support! Rather a dark venture, but definitely a lot of hashing out to be had after S3. Stay tuned! :)**


	4. Chapter 4

Why can't you just go back to your ridiculous wife and _leave. me. ALONE._"

John recoiled mentally, but forced himself to stay expressionless as Sherlock's voice bounced off the walls of the bedroom. He refused to react outright, because Sherlock would remember it later. Maybe. John wouldn't put it past him.

Besides, he was still conscious on some level because of the wife comme-

John couldn't stop the wince when Sherlock suddenly kicked the blankets away in a fit of inspiration. "What are you doing?" he asked softly, not stepping forward just yet.

"I'm going to the bathroom," Sherlock retorted, staggering to his feet, stumbling, and then drawing himself up to full height to glare down at John. "Unless you're going to follow me in there, _too_." He staggered the distance between the bathroom and probably would have slammed the door if it were the kind to be slammed. He just jerked it closed hard enough that it rattled on its track for a moment, leaving the sudden silence ringing in John's ears.

It was just past one, which meant Sherlock was just reaching past thirty hours. His mood was deteriorating, as well as his physical state. It wasn't as though John had found Sherlock around twenty-seven hours, clutching a pillow to his stomach and his face buried into another and been _blind _to the fact that he was hiding tears into it, but he hadn't said anything, just pulled a sheet up over Sherlock's taxed body. By the sound of the thump that had come after John had left the room, Sherlock had balled up the sheet and thrown it right off the bed.

From then, he was up and down for the process of the next few hours, complaining in fits of lucidness that he was _restless, John, just let me be_. Or he'd drag all the blankets onto the sofa complaining of the cold (and John realised with a quick and sly movement of pressing his fingers against Sherlock's forehead that the brunette was now running a fever) only to struggle so fiercely to get them off because he was sweating to the point where he was back near tears again.

Eventually, Sherlock had just plunked himself down in the hallway, pressed his back against the wall, and hugged his knees to his chest. It had taken John the better part of twenty minutes to coax him back into bed.

Leading to now, where John had been feeling for Sherlock's temperature while he slept and his friend had woken up to John looming over him, causing the outburst. The moments of drug crazed unpredictability were more frequent than the ones of clarity at this point, and so, John had to admit that Sherlock waking up to him doctoring him probably wasn't the best way to wake up on already stretched thin nerves.

The bathroom door opened into the hall. John looked towards the bedroom doorway, but Sherlock didn't reappear through it. With a sigh, he fixed Sherlock's blankets so that they were ready for him to just crawl back into bed, and left the room to find what his friend was doing now.

Sherlock wandered to the sink, hooked a dirty mug out of the sink, and held it under the running tap of cold water before gulping it down. At least he was drinking; John knew hydration was key here, but trying to get Sherlock to stay hydrated on a good day was a battle enough, he thought disinterestedly, watching as Sherlock refilled the cup with more water. He didn't know what he was taking on with this, with detox, not really. And to be honest, it didn't matter, because he wasn't going to let Sherlock suffer through it by himself, or with someone like Mycroft at his side. He didn't doubt the elder Holmes's capability, it was just... well, they were usually at odds, Sherlock and Mycroft. And if Sherlock had a problem with _John_ being so close to him...

"Hey," he said slowly, frowning as Sherlock filled up his mug a third time. "Take it-"

And _of course_, no more than had he started to say anything did Sherlock's stomach decide to rebel; the mug went clattering, miraculously managing not to break, while Sherlock vomited into the sink.

John let out a deep breath, moving forward from the doorway. He was surprised that the vomiting hadn't started earlier, actually. "Get it all up, that's it."

Sherlock groaned, a pathetic, low sound in the back of his throat, fumbling for the tap to rinse the sink. "... I'm so _thirsty_," he muttered. "My mouth ish all dry."

John was brazen enough to reach over to brace Sherlock's shoulders, trying to help him back up to full height. "I can hear that, but let's get you sat down before you irritate your stomach anymore. I'll make some weak tea, but you've got to go slow." He helped Sherlock the few feet to the table, where Sherlock sank bonelessly into the chair.

His elbows immediately went to the table top and he dropped his head into his hands, groaning softly. "My head is _killing_ me," he muttered, his fingers curling into his sweaty hair to prove the matter.

"Okay, I can give you another dose of paracetamol for the headache. That's fine."

Sherlock's hands fell away onto the table. "Is it over yet, John?"

He was more lucid right now, then. "No," John said shortly. "But soon."

Sherlock laughed dryly, arms sliding across the table until he could cushion his head on them atop the cluttered table. "... You're a horrible liar."

John smiled faintly, turning away for the tea. "I am not."

"... Dunno how many hours 'm in." Sherlock's voice was muffled by his arms. "My sleeping and... non-sleeping." He squirmed a bit, stretching his legs out. "... dunno if I'm dreaming or awake, never feel rested... can't remember half of what I'm doing..."

"'s alright." John set a weak cup of tea down next to Sherlock's elbow. "I won't let you do anything too stupid."

Sherlock sat up shakily to sip at his tea, staring off into the distance. John wondered if he was seeing things that he couldn't, hallucinating from the drugs slowly leaving his system. His eyes were intent, glassy but intent, on whatever he was staring at. Or maybe he was just thinking.

"Sorry if I shouted at you." Sherlock's voice startled John out of his reverie a few minutes later, as he was cleaning the sink out. "I don't remember, but I... recall irritation. Just... flashes." Sherlock's hand trembled on the mug. "Emotion," he mumbled.

"Don't worry about it." John felt like he was saying that a lot, and he was startlingly aware that it wasn't going to help the mind of Sherlock Holmes. "Believe it or not, I've got thick skin."

Sherlock laughed weakly, just the barest trace of an exhale with humour. "I know. You've put up with me." He stopped speaking to swallow.

John dropped the wad of paper towels. "Do you have to throw up again?"

"... I hope not," Sherlock mumbled, setting his mug aside.

Drying his hands on his trousers, John ducked into the sitting room to grab the bin he'd pulled out earlier. It was actually a tub for organs, meant for use in theatre. John had found it under the sink and given it a good wash, even though it appeared new. He doubted Sherlock would appreciate smelling liver while throwing up into it. Then _again_...

"Here." John set it down on the table. "Just in case."

Sherlock nodded minutely.

John stood there uselessly for a moment. "... You wanna head back to bed?"

"Not really. The not sleeping thing. Insomnia." Sherlock puffed out a breath. His respiration was up, quicker and more shallow than John liked. "Antsy." He sighed again, and put his head back in his hands. "My whole _body_'s buzzing."

John sighed, too. "You should at least lay down. Lemme see your temp, you're already sweating buckets because of the detox." He reached his hand out.

He was pleasantly surprised when Sherlock merely leaned into the touch, not arguing or complaining this time. Instead, he just curled slightly towards John and closed his eyes. John could see his pulse jumping in his throat. He didn't need to reach over to count it.

"... I'll go back to bed," Sherlock mumbled. "After the tea." He didn't move.

John didn't think. Maybe, in retrospect, he should have, knowing full well that it could end with him getting a bump to the head, but he didn't. Instead, he pulled his hand away and, when Sherlock swayed slightly forward from the lack of support he'd been leaning against, John stepped forward and put his arm around Sherlock's shoulders instead, drawing him up against his chest.

Sherlock scrabbled to catch hold of the table so that he didn't fall completely onto John. John realised that the whole idea was a little more paternal than he had thought it would be.

"... You're hugging me." Sherlock's voice was muffled against John's jumper.

"... Yes." John looked away. "Although it's awkward now."

"... I don't need..." Sherlock's breath hitched, breaking off with a choked noise that John hadn't ever heard the likes coming from his friend's mouth. "Sorry," Sherlock said thickly. "... _Emotions_." Clearly, he meant to say it with vehemence and disdain. It came out weak and trembling.

"I know, mate."

Sherlock's arm that was bracing him against the table was shaking. John moved over slightly so that Sherlock didn't need the extra support.

"It'll be okay. You'll get through this."

"... Sure." Sherlock sniffed slightly. His fingers came up to grip at John's arm. "... The man you've saved."

"Huh?" John looked down at the sweaty mop of hair pressed against his chest.

"... You're doing it again."

John frowned. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Mmm..."

John tilted his head slightly, but didn't press at the matter. Something about the words jiggled at his brain, as if to say that he should understand, but he didn't. He counted it off as some unconscious musing of a detox addled brain, even though it sounded familiar.

"... If you don't move, I might cry on you. Or throw up on you," Sherlock said weakly.

John smiled wryly. "No problem. I've dealt with worse."

"Huh."

"Besides, if I move, you'll fall."

For an instant, John was taken back over three years ago, a black speck on the rooftop and emotion, raw _emotion_, then a breath and a blur and crimson gold staining against the pavement, the cold biting his ears and cheeks as rain pelted against the stinging burn of tears that wouldn't come, the absence of a throbbing pulse beneath his fingers and his best friend laying dead on the pavement below his numb, extended fingers-

"Yes," Sherlock said.

It startled John out the memory and he looked down at Sherlock sharply. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock's grip tightened on John's almost painfully, but John found that he didn't care. Not now. Not when it proved Sherlock was there, alive, and _fighting_.

John nodded to himself slightly. Right. He was seeing this through. Of course he was.

* * *

><p>John jolted awake from a nightmare later on in the evening. He glanced reflexively around, heart pounding in his chest, relaxing slightly as he took in Baker Street and remembered that he had tucked Sherlock back into bed hours ago, where he still was, going by his stuffy-nose snoring.<p>

A quick glance at the clock told him it was almost seven in the evening. He knew he should make something to eat, but he wasn't hungry, nor was he about to wake Sherlock up. He'd check on him in a moment, though. He flopped back against the sofa and sighed, rubbing at his eyes.

He was dreaming about Sherlock again, an amalgamation of things ranging from past cases to the faked suicide to now. They weren't particularly pleasant, but they had reminded John of something. _The man you've saved_. That had been part of Sherlock's best man speech. He'd said something about the lines of that _he_ was the man John had saved. And now he was doing it again. But Sherlock had it wrong, that. Or, at least, only partly right. Maybe John had saved Sherlock, somehow, some way, but Sherlock had done the same for him. They were existing because of each other.

It should have been a scary thought.

Instead, it propelled John off the couch to go make sure that Sherlock was still okay, or was still on his way to being okay. They were in this together, Hell or high water, Mary or no Mary, John always had Sherlock as much as Sherlock had him. And that was just the most effortless thought that John had entertained all day, because it was true.

* * *

><p><strong>Oh, the <em>emotions<em>. It's all getting worse.**


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock didn't utter a word when he woke up and managed to spectacularly vomit clean down his front. There was a look of surprised agony that flickered across his face before that too shut down, leaving him sweating and shaking and staring off into the distance.

"Okay, okay." John handed Sherlock the bin, sidestepping the vomit on the floor. He was hoping to avert a crisis, one of Sherlock panicking or worrying or a fit of anger. "We'll get you cleaned up, don't worry about it. That's what I'm here for," he joked halfheartedly, hoping to break the tension but no, Sherlock was still off in space. It was a stark contrast to the Sherlock that woke up angry, but it was just as unsettling.

"How about a bath?" he suggested, eyeing the mess. It was quickest, and easiest, and it might help some of the aches and pains, if the arm curled around Sherlock's stomach and the shuddering breaths meant anything. "You can relax a little and I'll change the sheets."

Sherlock still wasn't saying anything, not moving asides from shaking so hard that the curls not matted to his head trembled against his forehead.

"Okay," John repeated, turning away to go run water into the bath. He searched out towels and new clothes, as well as fresh linens, and made a mental note to foot the bill for washing this go-round even though he didn't live here any longer.

When he returned to the bedroom to collect Sherlock, he reached for his arm and, this time, did so without thinking. This time, when his fingers curled Sherlock's bony wrist, Sherlock flinched away from him. John held up his hands. "Sorry."

It was the second time he'd done that in two days, had Sherlock flinch from him. He wondered if that was hard-wired into him or if it was the detox. Either way, it wasn't a _good_ feeling to watch Sherlock flinch from the physical contact, but he couldn't think about that right now.

So, instead, he rolled the blankets up into a ball and pushed them away, offering his hand to help Sherlock out of bed if he needed it.

The detective took it blearily and allowed John to help him stumble to his feet. He was clearly somewhere else. Maybe that was a good thing. Maybe it was bad.

"Come on."

The silence, however, was not entirely comforting. And since Sherlock wasn't going to be talking, John thought that he may as well break it.

"So, this is probably... okay, really unimportant to you, but I was thinking that maybe, after all of this is over, Mary and I might go on holiday. If, you know, everything works out. Which I still haven't figured if it will, or not, because... well." John shrugged, helping Sherlock lean against the cabinet. "But I guess that's something to work out in the future. We still have Christmas before that. God, I don't even know if we'll _have_ Christmas. It'll be our first Christmas as a married couple and we might just spend it away from each other. At least I'll be able to drag you into the celebration, though, if I spend it here," he joked halfheartedly.

It didn't elicit a response. In fact, Sherlock's eyes had slipped closed, like he was sleeping standing up. John groped for a pulse for a moment before shaking his shoulder. Sherlock's eyes fluttered open listlessly, staring towards him without really noticing him.

"Just making sure you're with me," John muttered, methodically setting to undressing Sherlock. "At least partially. I think I'm talking to myself, in any case, but I guess it doesn't make much of a difference, you don't hear half of what I say to begin with."

But that didn't matter. It never had, really, and deep down, he also knew it wasn't true. Sherlock could be in the throes of his worst enemy - _emotion_ - and still be able to pick up five letters that John had told him about to try and form an acronym out of. He _did_ listen... selectively.

Maybe some of it would get through this time, too. So, John kept up his endless tirade about Mary, about his job, about Harry, and Mary's friends, or his own friends, or even talking about the cases that he and Sherlock had gotten into (and a couple that he had gotten into that Sherlock had missed while he had been away). He talked about some of the students that he had met as trainees, or the average mates that came in for a shadowing. He talked about the days of his own training, ages and ages ago before he'd even been sent off to Afghanistan. And he talked about Afghanistan itself, friends he'd had there, friends that had died, friends he had saved. The good men that he had never seen again and the bad men that he had seen far too much. He talked about leaving home for the first time, about how he'd been so eager to go and how he was just a little bit jealous of Sherlock's family, because even though Sherlock and Mycroft were always at odds, they so clearly cared about each other and so did their parents, from what John could tell from meeting them briefly in the sitting room of Baker Street. John had never had that with Harry, and not with his parents, either.

He recounted how he thought Sherlock was a bloody psychopath when he had first met him, but how it had never really mattered because, like Sherlock had said, John was an addict and the danger aspect had always appealed to him. Sometimes, with unintended consequences. He talked about what he did after Sherlock faked his own death, a little awkwardly, told the story of how he had met Mary, a little wistfully, and how Mrs Hudson had all but thrown the biscuits at him when he had finally stopped by for tea, just mere hours before Sherlock had come back from the dead. Those had been... wishy-washy days, those days in between, after the Sherlock period but before the Mary period, as he so charmingly had decided to call them. They were both probably the most important parts of his life. Well. Not 'probably', even.

"... John."

John jumped, dropping the cloth into the bath water.

Sherlock didn't look up, half curled up in the bath, head ducked, water still dripping off his curls. "... You don't have to regale me with stories of your life to distract me from my own," he continued dully.

"Sorry," John muttered, reaching for the wash cloth. "You know where you are?"

"... In the bath," Sherlock said tiredly. "I don't remember much, though..." He raised his hands, clumsily rubbing at his eyes. "_Why_ are you giving me a bath again?" he asked listlessly.

"You threw up everywhere."

"Oh." Sherlock shifted a bit, wrapping his shaking arms around his knees. "Sorry."

"Dealt with worse," John reiterated. "Close your eyes."

Sherlock closed his eyes obediently so that John could gently pour water over his head. If Sherlock weren't semi-catatonic, he probably would have risked washing his hair, but water was going to have to fight the grunge for now. He figured Sherlock would appreciate it in the long run.

Sherlock shook his head slightly, flinging water droplets away from the ends of his hair. He rest his head on his knees and stared at the tap. "... It's cold."

"Sorry," John said, reaching for the warm water. "You've a fever."

"Mm."

John gripped Sherlock's shoulder loosely. "Can you manage on your own for a minute or two so I can change your blankets. I don't really want to leave you alone, but..."

"I can manage my own bath," Sherlock muttered.

"Normally, I'd agree." John turned the water off again, getting to his feet. "I'll be right back. _Please_, do not move."

"I'm _fine_," Sherlock mumbled. "I've detoxed by myself before..."

"And I can imagine how that went," John muttered, ducking back into the bedroom to quickly swap out the sheets.

He was only halfway through when there was a rush of water, a crack, followed by a _thud_, and the sound of vomiting.

John nearly took out the nightstand in his haste to spin around back into the bathroom.

Sherlock had managed to get out of the tub successfully - although that was moot, given the noises that John had heard - and was now curled over the toilet, sopping wet and naked, dry retching for a lack of anything else in his stomach.

"Sherlock!" John hurried across the room. "Are you okay?" He paused, answering his own question as he spotted blood on the linoleum. "What's hurt?"

"_Everything_!"

"Eh?"

"My body, my brain!" Sherlock snapped. "Make it _stop_!" He gagged and turned back to the toilet, coughing up bile.

John hesitated before crouching down next to him, giving him the best physical examination that he could with his eyes, given the circumstances. The blood had come from somewhere. Clearly it hadn't been too detrimental a knock if Sherlock was still conscious and vomiting and snapping at him, but it was enough that it had to hurt. That it _should_ hurt, anyway.

"... My _stomach_," Sherlock spat, scrubbing his face.

"I know." John muttered. "What else?"

"... I'm naked and _cold_," Sherlock bit off. "Why is it so _cold_?"

John stood up, grabbing Sherlock's towel off the cabinet. "Sorry. You had me worried, I forgot. Here." He wrapped the towel around Sherlock's shaking shoulders, using a corner of it to towel dry Sherlock's hair, at least, until he made a noise in the back of his throat that made John freeze. "Sorry. Did you hit your head?"

"No," Sherlock replied wearily. "Feels good."

"Oh." John blinked. "Uh." He was about to ask him if he wanted him to continue when he noticed the blood, again, and this time, the wound with it. Sherlock had a gash along his arm, about an inch and a half, that was still oozing blood. "There's your wound," he murmured, reaching for Sherlock's arm gently.

"I slipped," Sherlock said, swallowing. "On the floor, slippery, arm, fine."

"I know." John reached for a handful of tissue, pressing it against the wound. "Let me get your trousers and then I'll fix you up."

"It's fi-" He broke off to gag, burying his face into the toilet again.

John pushed himself to his feet to grab Sherlock's clothes. He had a feeling it was going to take awhile to get him back into them, and he wondered if it was even worth it; Sherlock seemed to have started a vomiting chain that he didn't seem likely to get away from until the detox started to wane. The worst part was still beginning.

John just hoped that both of them made it out of it unscathed.

* * *

><p><strong>It's a little bit lacklustre, I'm sorry. They all can't be angst and tragedy. More of that next chapter!<strong>

**Still don't own _Sherlock_. Thanks for reading!**


	6. Chapter 6

"Make it stop, make it stop, make it _stop_," Sherlock ground out from between clenched teeth. "John, _please_. Please." He made a grab at John's wrist.

John pulled away instinctively and then cursed himself internally. Sherlock wasn't trying to hurt him; he was just trying to... well, get through to him. And he did, but that didn't change the fact that John couldn't do _anything_ about it, because what Sherlock was asking...

"Sorry, Sherlock," John muttered. "I can't. You've just got to work through this. I'm here, for whatever difference that makes."

"Doesn't make a difference if you won't help me!" Sherlock growled, twisting his fingers into the blankets.

John didn't bother to try arguing. _It's _can't, _not _won't_, _his mind argued, but he didn't say it out loud. It was lost on Sherlock, who had hit the peak of the detox and wasn't lucid at all. The vomiting had carried on, and gotten progressively worse, now to the point where John could manage to coax a little bit of toast into Sherlock and Sherlock would throw it up not twenty minutes later. He was able to get water into him a little bit better, a little easier, even though there was the nagging suspicion that _no, you shouldn't be doing this, he shouldn't be doing this _here_, he should be in hospital, he's going to get dehydrated, you need to get more electrolytes into him_.

He even contemplated calling Mycroft and asking for an IV to get Sherlock hooked up, but then, he wondered, was that violating the trust that Sherlock was putting in him? He hadn't told Mycroft for a reason, if not only because of his sheer, bloody pride (which, to be fair, John understood this time). Who was John to go back and call him in the worst part of Sherlock's detox?

"It _hurts_."

That was more of an honest to God whimper this time. It settled into John, clouting his throat and stabbing into his heart. He _had_ seen people go through detox before. He had. But he had never seen his best friend going through detox, and he certainly hadn't seen the most brilliant man he'd ever known reduced to _this_.

"My brain is on _fire_," Sherlock moaned, his fingers flying up to bury into his hair. "It's too much, everything, heartbeat, buzzing, insects, clues and cases and criminals..." he trailed off into incoherent words that John couldn't pick out, except he could tell Sherlock was barely drawing a breath.

Was this what it did to him? Set his brain ablaze? If Sherlock got bored, or destructive to the point of shooting smileys into the walls when he was _bored_, the pain that came with withdrawal was probably like... what, being torn apart?

"I need a case!" Sherlock shouted, startling John out of his reverie.

"There're no cases, Sherlock," John said soothingly, fidgeting with the blankets. "You're not missing anything."

"There's something, I know there's something, you're lying to me. Everyone's always lying to me, why is everyone _always_ trying to lie to me?"

"Sherlock," John started, leaning out of the way as Sherlock's gesticulating arm nearly backhanded him. "I am not lying. You can trust me."

"Then I need cocaine! Morphine, oxy, heroin, pills, hell, John, _caffeine_. I can get high on caffeine, please, just, something, I need _this_-" he tugged on his hair again- "to stop, to calm down, I can't turn it off, I need something, John. Nicotine!" he added abruptly, his unfocussed eyes sliding to John again.

John swallowed and reached forward to untangle Sherlock's fingers from his hair. "Come on, you know this won't help your head." It took some time, but keeping Sherlock talking worked enough that John could pull his fingers from his scalp. There was blood beneath his fingernails. "Hey, here. Here's a case," he said quietly, squeezing at Sherlock's fingers. "A thought," he amended. "If a person was buried alive, how long would it take before they ran out of oxygen?"

It was a morbid thought, nonetheless, but he knew what Sherlock liked. And Sherlock liked morbid. Sherlock liked uncommon. And Sherlock needed to think about _anything_ except the ringing in his own head right now.

"... kind of vehicle?" Sherlock gasped, gripping at John's hand so tightly that John was already starting to lose feeling in it.

"Say a cab."

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath. John couldn't get him to breathe properly. He hoped he didn't pass out over it. He just couldn't calm him down enough over it. "Black or yellow?" Sherlock cracked out, pressing his hands against his eyes.

John flexed his fingers. Pins and needles shot up them. "Say the yellow."

It took a long time to get an answer, but John eventually got it. And when Sherlock had satisfactorily worked through the puzzle, he was out for the count, shaking violently in his unconsciousness with sweat soaking through the sheets and blankets. He'd bypassed clothes hours ago. It was too messy to futz with, and John agreed.

John dozed when Sherlock did. His phone vibrated on one occasion and he nearly fell over his own feet to get it before Sherlock would wake up and he nearly dropped his mobile when he realised the text was from Mary, asking him if he was coming home this time.

He'd realised that he'd lost track of the days. He had come in thinking _hours, hours_. They had been fifteen hours in, or forty eight hours in, and now it was just _endless_. It was just ongoing. It was ongoing until it stopped, and John didn't bother to look at the calendar. If he got sacked from work, he got sacked. If Mary left him... if only it were that easy. (Except he didn't want that, not really, or he would have demanded it ages ago, and now, watching Sherlock determinedly push his way through physical and mental torture, John realised his problems seemed petty in comparison. He just wanted this all to _end_. Peacefully. Why were their lives never peaceful?)

John didn't have any right to complain right now, though. Later, maybe, when things had calmed down.

* * *

><p>John staggered back, hitting the wall hard. He knew it was his own fault for trying to bodily get Sherlock back into bed, but Sherlock could not - could <em>not<em> - leave the flat for something as inane as having to go to a horse race. Not to mention, John was pretty sure there _was_ no horse race, and whatever Sherlock was talking about now was either a past case or something that he had invented in his mind.

Still, Sherlock hadn't taken kindly to having his arm grabbed as he tried to struggle out of the room. He'd pushed back, flinging his arm out to hit John square against the chest with more power than John expected out of the struggling detective.

He swore under his breath, pushing off from the wall. "Sherlock..."

"Don't come any closer," Sherlock said lowly. The danger was tangible in his voice. It made John _want_ to listen... but he couldn't.

"Sherlock, you know I can't let you leave." _You won't even get to the sitting room without collapsing_, he added to himself.

"Stay... away," Sherlock said slowly, enuciating each word. "_John_."

"Okay." John held up his hands. "Okay. How about... how about I just go?" he asked slowly. "And then you can... you can go to your horse race. Hell, go find your dealer. You wanna fall off this wagon? Go ahead." He gave him a _so what_ gesture before dropping his hands. "Fine. Fine. I'm done." He moved away from the wall slowly, heading for the doorway.

"Fine. _Go_." Sherlock leaned against the door frame heavily, sliding down a bit. "Leave. Everyone _does_."

John closed his eyes briefly as he passed him. "Sorry."

"Wha-"

John spun around, knocking the back of Sherlock's knees out with one calculating move. Sherlock went down like a sack of potatoes, hitting the floor with a disheartening thud. He latched onto Sherlock's shoulders as his friend struggled with his lanky limbs, glaring up at him with a gaze that could have killed. "Sherlock, _Sherlock_, listen to me. Listen!" He tightened his grip slightly. "I'm not going _anywhere_. I told you that before and I'm not renegging on it. I am your _friend_, so let me help."

Sherlock continued to glare up at him balefully, although he stopped struggling after a few seconds.

"Good." John blew out a breath. It wasn't a matter of Sherlock fighting him. Sherlock would wear down before John would, this time. "See? You're fine. You're going to be fine."

Sherlock got the last word by throwing up on John's feet.

Of course he did.

* * *

><p>"The bathroom floor's cool," Sherlock mumbled, voice muffled by one half of his face being pressed flush against the bathroom floor. "'m sho hot."<p>

"Sherlock..." John sighed, pushing the bathroom door open the rest of the way.

"'s too bright... loud..." Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed again. "Can't do it anymore, John."

"Yes, you can. You will." John knelt down next to him, felt for his temperature. "_I _know you will, Sherlock."

"... -hy you shtick around me sho much," Sherlock garbled, trailing off.

"Because," John replied patiently, sitting down, "you're my best friend. I told you before. You," he said idly, hauling Sherlock's head off the floor so that he didn't end up with a stiff neck on top of everything else, "are family." He allowed Sherlock to settle his head in his lap instead, and swept his greasy hair out of his face. "Alright?"

"'m not gonna make it thish time," Sherlock lisped, tossing his head weakly.

"Yeah, you will." John had to stretch for cabinet, but managed to find the cool cloth without dislodging Sherlock. "I always believe in you. Even when you don't believe in yourself." He sponged away the sweat from Sherlock's neck as the bathroom dissolved into silence again.

* * *

><p><strong>SORRY for the delay in posting; I've been having problems with FF letting me upload! (lots of problems with FF working properly in other cases, too) But it seems to have been resolved for the time, and hopefully permanently, so here you go. Lots of hc kicking up. Poor Sherlock, as usual.**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Thanks for reading, as usual~**

**#BelieveinSherlock**


	7. Chapter 7

Worse still were the nightmares. Or maybe they started out as nightmares, but they quickly escalated to something else: night terrors. They didn't drop off when Sherlock woke up, either, leaving him thrashing around in the blankets, staring unseeingly towards the wall with laments of "No, leave him alone, leave them alone, it's no use, I'll tell you, just leave them be, please, _please_". John was fairly sure he caught his own name a few times in the mangled speech, making his blood go cold each and every time Sherlock continued his pleading with the unseen force.

Maybe they weren't even night terrors. Maybe they were memories. The scars against Sherlock's unusually unmarked skin were stark and could tell a thousand stories. John was sure he wouldn't ever hear one of them past this detox. He didn't know if it should bother him, or if it bothered him more that he _didn't_ want to know.

"If you were more intelligent, then you'd just kill me and be done with it, why can't you just _think_, it would save us all a lot of-"

John only just managed to get the bin under Sherlock's chin before he threw up again, cringing as Sherlock gagged and heaved over nothing except a line of spit and phlegm. John whisked it away with his sleeve and gently persuaded Sherlock back into the pillows.

Until he didn't. One minute, Sherlock was unmoving beneath his ministrations, allowing him to check his pulse and fix his pillows, the next, John was reeling backwards from a punch that had been as unexpected as much as it had been painful. He felt something crack and heat rushed into his nose, blood pouring down into his mouth.

He swore over Sherlock saying something about not touching him, pressing his sleeve against his nose. "Sherlock, it's John, you clod." He knew it had no effect, but it was instinctive. His nose was throbbing; he just hoped that it wasn't broken. "You're dedoxing. You're safe, ad home, in Baker Sdreed." He sniffed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand. "Everyone's safe, because your plan wordged. Everyding's fine." _Except my bloody nose_, he added mentally, but that wasn't entirely Sherlock's fault.

When he was sure that Sherlock wasn't about to jump up and try to destroy the flat, or worse (even then, it was debatable at best, the mood swings came on so fast), John ducked into the bathroom for a wash cloth to press to his nose. He glanced at his reflection, pale skin, blood bright red against his skin, dark circles under his eyes. His hand was shaking as he pressed the cloth against the newest battle wound.

He didn't look much better than Sherlock had in the beginning stages of all this.

He let out a deep breath, leaned forward to prop his elbows up on the countertop, and closed his eyes.

* * *

><p>He'd fallen asleep at the end of Sherlock's bed, but something had startled him awake. He didn't know what, or even what time it was save for that it was dark outside of the curtains drawn permanently over Sherlock's windows. He groaned and fumbled for the light on his watch. He was certain that he hadn't been asleep for long, but then, he barely slept even when he did. It was like being asleep with one eye open.<p>

The illumination bounced off the display of his watch to reflect back in eyes staring at him from the top of the bed.

John jumped again, his breath escaping in a rush. "Oh, Sherlock. You startled me."

"... Sorry..."

John stretched slightly, getting to his feet. "How're you feeling?"

"... I've felt better," Sherlock rasped.

"Are you with me?" John asked, hurriedly groping for the lamp. He hadn't expected Sherlock to respond, not with anything sensible.

"... _You're_ still with _me_, more like..." Sherlock coughed, trying to sit up.

"Hey, hey, hey, take it easy, you've had a time." John placed his hand on his shoulder with less reluctance than he had in days.

"Have to use the loo," Sherlock muttered, reaching over to steady himself on John's arm.

"Oh. Okay." John held out his hand, gripping at Sherlock's elbow. "Careful."

Sherlock simultaneously cringed and staggered as soon as he was on his feet, half falling back against John.

"I got you, hang on."

Sherlock groaned in the back of his throat. His fingers tightened around John's wrist. His entire body was shaking.

"I've got you," John repeated. "You need to sit? We can tackle the loo in a second. I can get you a bottle or something."

The disgusted look he received in return was the most reassuring thing John had seen in days. "I can manage," Sherlock grumbled. "... but I'm going to puke first," he added quickly, looking around frantically.

John swept the bin up from the nightstand, holding onto it even though Sherlock scrabbled to hold it himself, just in case.

"Oh, _fuck_," Sherlock moaned, squeezing his eyes closed. "Hurts."

"I know," John said quietly. "I'll get you something to drink in a sec. You finished?"

Sherlock nodded listlessly. "Toilet."

"Yes, I know." John shifted his arm around Sherlock's waist. Sherlock's arm automatically looped around John's neck. John almost smiled, only to surprise himself with the rush of emotion that came with the motion. It felt like he hadn't smiled in days. He swallowed the lump in his throat and painstakingly helped Sherlock into the bathroom, step by step.

He didn't seem to want to go back to bed, though, half asleep against John's shoulder even before they made it back over the threshold. John couldn't blame him, but-

"Come on, Sherlock, I can't carry you." He readjusted his grip, trying to prod Sherlock back towards consciousness. "Just a couple more feet and you can sleep."

Sherlock muttered something against his shoulder that he couldn't understand, although probably to the effect of being tired, but he did manage to raise his head a tiny bit and stumble the last few feet to the mattress.

"There you go," John soothed, pulling the top sheet over Sherlock's exhausted body. "You can sleep now. Did you still want something to drink?"

Sherlock's response was again garbled into the pillow that he'd buried his face into, but it didn't matter. John left him to go make a cup of weak tea, skipping the sugar and milk. Sherlock hadn't moved when he returned.

"Got some tea," John said quietly, "if you're still awake."

Sherlock didn't reply.

John busied himself with cleaning up a bit, swapping out the cool water that he'd been sponging Sherlock off with, gathering dirty clothes and sheets, picking up the pillows and blankets that Sherlock had flung aside.

"... Ugh." Sherlock shuffled over slowly.

"You want that tea now?" John asked.

"Yeah," Sherlock said weakly.

"Okay."

Sherlock took a few, small drinks of the tea, allowing John to hold onto the mug even though he was gripping at John's hand loosely like he planned to take the mug for himself.

"I'm gonna get you some vitamins soon," John said conversationally. "Until you're back on solid food, well, good food. You've been throwing up for days." He desperately wanted to get him back on solid food; he was looking thinner and more fragile than John had seen him. He suspected half of that was because John wasn't around now to make sure he kept eating, but part of it had to have come from the detox, too.

"Mhmmm..." Sherlock turned his head, hand falling away from the mug.

John set it aside, bracing Sherlock's shoulder long enough to grab his pillow and swap it out with the one he'd just slipped a new pillowcase on.

Sherlock flopped back against the pillow, sighing heavily. "... 's nice," he mumbled, turning his face into the crisp pillowcase.

"Good. Now go back to sleep."

Sherlock pried his eyes open wearily. They were far from clear, still glazed over with the distant, glassy look that signified something wasn't right, something wasn't normal, but they were a little less... confused. A tiny bit less in pain. "... When was the last time you slept?" he asked hoarsely.

John shrugged slightly. "I'm fine."

For an instant - and only just - something like the flicker of a smile tugged at Sherlock's lips. "Reversal of roles..." he mumbled.

John raised his eyebrows. "I guess so. Usually I'm asking you when you've slept."

Sherlock nodded slowly. "Yes." His eyes dipped closed, but he forced them open a few seconds later. "... Go sleep."

John looked at him for a moment, like the words were filtering through his brain at the slowest speed possible. And then, when they _did_ hit, he felt his shoulders sag as the exhaustion hit him all at once. "... Right," he mumbled.

Sherlock didn't respond, already back asleep again going by the state of his breathing.

John sighed and stumbled out of the bedroom. He barely made it to the sofa before he was fast asleep himself, his mind clicking off into the calm embrace of the darkness outside their windows.

* * *

><p><strong>And Sherlock's back!<strong>

**... Maybe.**


	8. Chapter 8

John woke up to the sound of vomiting.

At first, he was confused, still caught somewhere between a dreamless sleep and hazy reality. But then he remembered where he was, the rough catch of a Union Jack pillow beneath his face and the smell of aftershave and tobacco and chemicals in the air, and he sat up quickly. "Sh'lock?"

He quickly spotted the detective, who was sitting at the kitchen table, now curled over the rubbish bin.

Sherlock made a face and spit, sitting up slightly. "... Hey." He cleared his throat and winced.

"What are you doing up?" John struggled with blankets that he was sure hadn't been there when he had fallen asleep. He finally dislodged them and got to his feet, staggering slightly. "Woah." He wondered how long he'd been asleep.

"I was hungry," Sherlock mumbled, smiling wryly. "Which is a good sign, things considered, but I..." He cleared his throat again. "Still can't manage it."

"Why didn't you ask me? You could have texted me, my phone's in my pocket." John ran his fingers through his hair, stepping into the kitchen.

"You wouldn't wake up," Sherlock said bluntly, leaning his head on his hand. "Just wanted a piece of toast and 'm tired of laying in my own sweat."

"You should be _resting_," John stressed, placing his hand on Sherlock's forehead. It was cooler. Still warm, but not as warm as it had been. That was also a good sign.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, much to John's surprise. "Sofa? Need a change of scenery."

John nodded. "Yeah, I'm awake, it's all yours." He hastened to help Sherlock up to his feet, watching him carefully. "So... uh..."

"'m back," Sherlock said sarcastically.

John sighed. "It's not funny."

"I'm not laughing." Sherlock coughed. "My body aches, head's _throbbing_, I can't quell the nausea and 'm dying for a cigarette." He sank onto the sofa, nostrils flaring in pain. "... but I'm awake... and aware. More or less."

"It'll take time before you're back at full strength."

"I know," Sherlock said, flexing his fingers. "Been through it before. It's just as bad."

John stood by the sofa, looking down at the detective. He was pale and coated with a sheen of sweat, his hair was greasy but it looked like he had attempted to ruffle it, going by the state it was sticking out in. He looked ill, like he was coming off a bad case of flu. But... he looked _better_. His eyes were _there_. He knew he was there, he knew what he was doing. That was Sherlock, that was the instinctual thirst for knowledge shining in that quicksilver gaze. A little muted, sure, but it was _Sherlock_.

John's eyes stung.

"You need more sleep," Sherlock commented, voice rough from the prolonged sleep and vomiting. It startled John back to reality, and he realised that he'd been staring at Sherlock.

"No." John blinked rapidly, shaking his head.

"You're overly emotional," Sherlock remarked, sinking back into the cushions.

"Sorry." John drew in a deep breath, turning away. "I know."

"Happens," Sherlock mumbled. "I guess. Mummy always used to cry, too."

"I'm just glad you're coming off it," John said, preparing a new pot of tea.

"Not good, then?" Sherlock asked.

John glanced over his shoulder. "Hm?"

Sherlock's eyes flickered anywhere but on him before eventually meeting his gaze. "What did I do?"

"What?"

"I had to do something," Sherlock muttered, pushing himself gingerly into the corner of the sofa. "Always do. You didn't have that bruise before."

"You probably have a lot of bruises that you didn't have before, too," John muttered, looking back at the teapot.

"Mm. What did I do?"

"Sherlock."

"_Tell_ me."

John smiling thinly, putting the lid back on the teapot. "Nothing I couldn't handle."

Sherlock glared at him weakly. "You're not going to tell me."

John shook his head.

"Why not?" Sherlock retaliated. "If I did it-"

"I said _resting_, Sherlock, not having a row with me," John interrupted.

Sherlock huffed. "... We're not done here," he muttered, pressing his head back against the armrest of the sofa. He draped his arm over his eyes and sighed heavily.

John didn't see any reason _why_ he should tell Sherlock what he'd done while he'd been under the influence of withdrawal. He didn't remember it, and why should he bother him with it? It wasn't like he actually _had_ broken his nose. It had been a nosebleed combined with the throb of being hit in the face, but it hadn't done lasting damage. Anything else was inconsequential, and nothing that Sherlock needed on his mind, not after all this.

Besides, if it were him, he'd rather _not_ know. It didn't matter now.

"Here. Tea." He held the mug out to Sherlock. "I put some honey in it, drink it _slowly_."

"Oh." Sherlock's arm fell away from his eyes. "Thanks."

"Can you manage?"

Sherlock nodded slowly. "Mhm."

"Okay..."

Sherlock slowly sat up and took the mug with semi-shaking hands. John was right in not having filled it up all the way. "Really," Sherlock said, offering up an almost painfully bashful smile. He ducked his head slightly and turned his attention back to his tea.

John went to collect the bin, just in case, and sank heavily onto the sofa next to Sherlock. He didn't mean to sigh, but he thought that he might have.

In any case, Sherlock didn't pick up on it. He drank his tea and ended up falling asleep with his head on John's shoulder.

John fell asleep with his head propped up on his hand.

* * *

><p>"Take it easy."<p>

"Thank you for the invasion on my privacy," Sherlock muttered, although he was a little slow on the uptake to grip the edge of the towel.

"You were impressed a few days ago when I was towel drying your hair," John said absently, mentally cursing when he realised what he'd said. He hadn't planned on bringing any of that up, if he could help it. It had just slipped out.

"Not surprising," Sherlock said. "I, ah, it's enjoyable when people play with my hair."

John snorted, fishing for the drain on the tub. "Really? You seem like you'd swat someone away if they tried."

"People I _tolerate_, obviously. Janine used to do this thing, in the morning, she'd always have her hands in my hair..." Sherlock trailed off, seeming to realise he'd said probably too much.

"... Right." John straightened up, reflexively steadying Sherlock as his friend struggled to get dressed on his own.

Sherlock grunted in a noncommental sort of way, pulling his shirt down.

"... Did you love her?" John asked. He was aiming for nonchalance. He had a feeling that he failed spectacularly, and he used the excuse that Sherlock was putting on trousers as a reason to keep his eyes averted.

"Don't be stupid."

"I'm serious." John glanced up in the mirror, and then away. "_Might_ have you?"

Sherlock braced himself on John's shoulder. "I doubt it."

"But you enjoyed bits of it."

"... I suppose." Sherlock pulled his trousers up, leaning heavily against the countertop. He was a little pale, but John couldn't figure if the hectic spots of red on his cheeks were from exertion, the bath, or the conversation. "Not my lifestyle. I much prefer bombs and break-ins."

"Huh." John shooed him away from the counter, planning to get him to go back to bed. Withdrawal didn't come and go and, while Sherlock was back to himself, he could barely make it through a bath without turning pale and shaky, or two pieces of toast with jam before nausea took over. "I'm not the best advocate for domestic bliss right now, so I couldn't tell you."

"She texted me, you know."

"Janine?"

"Mary."

John looked up.

"Yesterday," Sherlock continued, sinking onto the mattress. "She wanted to know if I'd seen you. If we were alright."

"Oh." John fidgeted, trying to shake the feeling that he'd left one problem only to have to return home to another. It was never-ending circle, and it was exhausting. "She texted me, I must have forgotten to text her back."

Sherlock gave him an all-knowing look, with intensity that nearly made John's skin crawl, but he didn't say anything. Instead, he settled down under the blankets and stretched luxuriously, sighing heavily. "Things are starting to settle, then."

"Feeling better?"

"Marginally." Sherlock rolled onto his side. "You should bathe."

John made a face. "Okay, insult me, I _know_ you're feeling better."

Sherlock smiled lazily. "I meant, it'll help you relax. You're tense, and you're exhausted." He curled his arms around his pillow. "You can leave, if you want."

John shook his head. "I'll just have a bath. You're not getting rid of me yet."

"I'd be fine."

"Uh huh." John raised his eyebrows. "You know it's not just over when you come back to yourself."

"I had noticed." Sherlock yawned.

"Sleep," John said. "I'll be in the bath if you need me."

"Mkay."

* * *

><p><strong>Getting there, they're getting there.<strong>

**One more chapter in this story. Thanks for your continued support! :D**


	9. Chapter 9

John wasn't sure what woke him up at four twenty-three in the morning, but it was something that kept him from falling back to sleep. He rolled over in bed, staring at the walls that used to be so familiar. He'd long since moved all the files that had been piled onto the bed since he'd gotten here last week, but he'd barely slept in bed because of his constant urge to check in on Sherlock. Now that Sherlock was better, John had been getting possibly the best night of sleep he'd had in a few weeks. He stared into the darkness, and narrowed his eyes slightly.

He had hoped to drop right off again, but after about a minute, realised it was a useless endeavour and pushed the blankets away. He'd check on Sherlock and use the loo and then, with any luck, crawl back into bed and sleep until six or so.

He made sure to skip the squeaky step on the staircase so he wouldn't wake Sherlock, tying his gown around his waist loosely. He yawned and rifled his fingers through his hair, peering around Sherlock's door.

He wasn't sure what he was expecting - okay, he was expecting him to be sleeping - but he didn't expect Sherlock to be wide awake and puffing away on a cigarette.

John marched across the room, plucked the cigarette from Sherlock's fingers, and flicked it into the mug of tea on the nightstand.

"John!" Sherlock protested, glaring up at him in the darkness. John couldn't exactly _see_ the glare, but he knew it was there. "That was my cigarette! And my tea!"

"I don't care how you feel, if I catch you smoking again, the water'll be in your face," John retaliated, flicking on the lamp.

"It wasn't water, it was tea!"

"Then I'll throw tea in your face! Are you _serious_ right now? After everything you've just done to get clean- what you're _still_ doing-"

"It's just a cigarette," Sherlock retorted, turning away.

"'Just a cigarette' does not reassure me." John crossed his arms.

"I smoked before the detox."

"On danger nights."

"Danger nights? There are no 'danger nights'. There's occasional smoke nights. Because I occasionally _smoke_."

John stared down at Sherlock, who glared up at him lividly for a moment before looking away.

"It was just a cigarette," Sherlock repeated sullenly, staring off into the distance.

"Not a good place to start," John said shortly, grabbing Sherlock's mug. "I'll get you some more tea."

"I don't want tea," Sherlock retorted without looking up.

"What do you want?"

"My cigarette."

_"Sherlock_," John said warningly.

Sherlock sighed heavily. "That was the last of the spares I'd hidden under the mattress, what did you do with the rest of them? And where are my nicotine patches?"

"You don't need nicotine patches, either."

"I need _something_," Sherlock snapped. "_Besides_ tea. I need a case!"

"Yeah, we're not doing that already. I'll get you tea."

"Soda, then," Sherlock grumbled, sinking a little further down into the blankets.

"Soda?" John raised his eyebrows, glancing over his shoulder.

"It's... fizzy. It's got bubbles and stuff. And caffeine. Or a sugar high."

John decided to let the choice of words go, although rationalised that _this_ was exactly the reason that he wasn't leaving yet. Symptoms didn't go away for a week to a week and a half, and even then, they didn't just _go away_. It was about control and staying clean afterwards, and rebuilding what had fallen away in the midst of the detox.

John grabbed a can of soda from the fridge to take back to the bedroom. Sherlock mumbled his thanks and popped the tab with one hand, slumping back against the headboard. John watched him for a moment before turning away without another word.

Speaking of rebuilding what had been taken away.

That was how he found himself carrying a microwaved bowl of chicken noodle soup into Sherlock's room at four thirty in the morning.

Sherlock glanced at him, did a double take, and groaned. "_John_. That smells amazing and I'm still-"

"Vomiting, I know," John interrupted. "But you have to start somewhere, and since you're handling liquids pretty well, I thought we'd pick up here."

"I'm handling tea," Sherlock mumbled. "And soda," he muttered, flicking the can before setting it aside. "But I'd kill for pasta, or pizza, or chips. Or soup," he added, more to himself, reaching out for the bowl.

"You don't have to eat all of this, it's only half, but..."

"I'm _starving_," Sherlock said, wincing slightly at the burn of the bowl against his fingers. "Which makes it all the more frustrating that this is equally tempting as it is nauseating."

"Slow," John advised, sitting on the edge of his bed.

"I know." Sherlock blew on a spoonful and took a bite. "I do need to edge back into solids, though. Vitamins only get you so far, and I could walk to the sofa without feeling exhausted if I ate something."

"This is not something that you can push."

"I _know_."

John watched Sherlock complete the spoon to bowl to mouth circuit a few more times before he felt the repetition of the movement lulling him back to sleep. He didn't want to fall asleep at the foot of Sherlock's bed again, but he wanted to make sure that Sherlock was going to go back to sleep before he went back to bed himself.

"I know I hit you at least once."

John pulled his eyes open, blinking the sleep away. "What?"

"I hit you." Sherlock pointed slightly with his spoon. "In the face. Probably resulted in a bloody nose, at the least... I don't remember."

John shrugged. "It wasn't you."

"Stop using that excuse; it doesn't help," Sherlock said brusquely. He licked his lips. "... So... I'm trying to say..."

"It's okay," John interrupted.

Sherlock glanced up. "... You don't know what I was going to say."

John tilted his head. "Yes, I do."

"... Okay." Sherlock looked back at his soup. "Good. Fine." He cleared his throat.

John shifted uncomfortably in the silence that followed.

"Well..."

"Yes."

Sherlock sat up slightly, while John got to his feet.

"I think I'm done here," Sherlock said, putting his spoon back in the bowl. "Or, I probably should be. It's starting to make my stomach churn, anyway. Carbonation from the soda probably isn't helping."

John took the bowl while Sherlock shuffled down under the blankets again, yawning widely. "Are you going back to sleep now?"

"I suppose." Sherlock folded his arm behind his head. "I've nothing else to do. And I might stave off the nausea if I do." He rolled over so his back was to John. "You, too, then?"

"Yeah, if I can trust you not to do something stupid in the meantime," John muttered, turning off the lamp.

"I wasn't doing anything stupid. Not too stupid," Sherlock amended, but then raised his voice. "I really am going back to sleep."

"Good. Get some rest." John received a mumbled assent in return and he left the room, giving Sherlock the benefit of the doubt for a couple of hours. He had to trust him sometime. It was another one of those things that he was going to have to edge back into.

* * *

><p>Lestrade showed up with three boxes of varying amounts of evidence and manila folders two days later.<p>

Sherlock positively lit up at the promise of cold cases to while away the hours, even if they were ones that he could solve from the flat.

John met Greg's gaze behind Sherlock's back and smiled. Greg gave him the same kind of smile back, slightly guarded but pleased nonetheless, as Sherlock flung the cardboard lid out of the way to dig through the folders.

"_Thank you_," John mouthed.

Lestrade gave him a thumbs-up.

"You didn't solve this? I remember this one." Sherlock fanned through a folder, sinking to his knees on the sitting room floor. His dressing gown fell in silky blue folds around his skinny frame and his hair stuck out in a wild disarray. "How did you not solve this?" he asked, looking up at Lestrade.

Greg shrugged. "I don't know. We didn't have you on case, probably. That's just when you were starting out. And I _think_ I recall having to arrest you because you stole our files."

Sherlock stared at him for a moment before recognition lit up his eyes. "Oh! I remember." He smiled tiredly and looked back at the file. His hands only shook a little bit.

* * *

><p>"Bigger fish to fry, John," Sherlock commented, over the babble of the television in the background.<p>

"Huh?" John glanced up. "Oi, is that my laptop?"

"Mine's upstairs," Sherlock replied flippantly, crossing his legs at the ankles. "I just needed to send an email."

"Why is your laptop in my bedroom?" John inquired, wrinkling his nose. "Why were _you_ in my bedroom?"

"It's my bedroom," Sherlock said. "Both of them. Which brings on the original topic of conversation; we have bigger things to do."

John frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm kicking you out."

John stopped, staring across the room at the detective. "What?"

"Mycroft knows that I've sufficiently gone through the worst part of detox, and is tediously taking precautions to make sure that I don't slip back into old habits within the period that follows." Sherlock closed John's laptop. "Which means he's got surveillance on me. Wave at the cameras," he said sarcastically, but from the way that his eyes flickered around the room, John wasn't sure if he was actually being sarcastic or not.

Sherlock sighed, looking back at John. "And you've got other problems to handle."

"I'm really-"

"Go home, John. Mary's waiting."

Now it was John's turn to sigh. "But you-"

"I have done this by myself before, and you've been here through the worst parts. I've managed to go out on a case with you, and I haven't acquired any more secret cigarettes." He rolled his eyes. "But I'm not stupid. I know what you're doing," he said bluntly. "So go home."

His voice was clear, but his eyes were clearer.

He was right. He knew he was right. Hell, _John _knew that he was right. He'd been staying with Sherlock afterwards to keep an eye on him, but it had gone past that now. He couldn't stay with him twenty-four seven. And John did have other problems. At home. His home home, not his second one.

"... Okay," he relented. "But you call me if _anything_ changes. Anything. Do you understand?"

"I know, John." Sherlock smiled slightly. "... You'd kill me if I didn't," he added, then pushed himself to his feet.

"Damn right I would," John muttered, getting up.

"I already told Mary that you'd be home today," Sherlock continued, pouring a tea.

"Thanks for that," John said under his breath.

"I told her what was happening with me, and why you'd been gone."

"You really didn't have to do that."

Sherlock handed the tea over to John. "Talk to her."

"Thanks..." John frowned at his reflection in the surface of the tea before taking a drink.

Sherlock cleared his throat, turning back to the teapot. "You'll work it out. I'm sure." His back was to him, but his body language was stiff.

John raised his eyebrows. "Are you trying to give me relationship advice?"

"No," Sherlock said quickly. "I'm not."

John laughed slightly. "Well. We'll see."

"Yes." Sherlock looked at him over his mug. "But if I can get through detox again, you can figure out your marriage, one way or another."

"_Really_?"

Sherlock shrugged slightly and turned away. Yes, he was using that against him. Somehow, it didn't surprise John, but neither did it offend him. Because he was right. He was really right. Bloody git, he was always right.

"I'll take care of it. Or try to," he said shortly.

"If you need help."

"I'll keep you in mind."

Sherlock headed back into the sitting room. "Oh, I was going to say 'don't come to me'."

John managed a noise somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. "Thank you."

Sherlock smiled slightly, sinking into his chair. "You're welcome."

John shook his head in mock disappointment. Really, he was glad that Sherlock was back to his normal self, at least, to this extent. He was glad that he could joke with him again. That he didn't see pain and confusion in the blue eyes that were always so keen and intelligent. That Sherlock was back to being Sherlock.

But Sherlock, being Sherlock, was also a know-it-all.

And, like he said, John had bigger fish to fry. New problems to move on to, or rather, old problems to now resolve. It was time for him to rethink his and Mary's situation. _Think_ about it, really, because he hadn't thought about it too much; he'd been trying to ignore it. Because Sherlock _was_ right. If he could get clean from the drugs, it was time for John to get clean of the darkness covering his marriage. And he'd need Mary's help for that. Just like Sherlock had needed him to get through detox, John needed Mary to work through their problems.

Together, or not at all.

It was a scary concept.

Was the fact that it _was_ scary answer enough? John wasn't sure.

"One down, one to go," Sherlock commented absently.

"Yeah," John muttered. "One to go..." he echoed.

* * *

><p><strong>And seeing as how I'm not opening the can of worms that always has been JAMJary(whatever the ship name is nowadays), that's the end of this story! Clearly, Sherlock's not as well as he needs to be, but detox just doesn't POOF and it's gone. He's better, and that's where I'm leaving it off. :) Thank you all for the support for this story, it's been amazing. It's been a fun, angsty roller coaster ride~**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Thanks for reading! :D**


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